FRATERNITIES
BUSINESSES
HOSPITALS
GOVERNMENT AGENCIES
NOVELTY STORES LIKE HALLMARK
There was always the possibility that the owner had simply ordered a stamp with their initials, and he couldn’t rule that out. But the stamp looked faded and old and the journal itself was something one would buy in bulk: a plain cover with cheap paper. It didn’t strike him as something a person would pick out while perusing a novelty store.
He limited his Google search to southern California and began searching for high schools with the acronym MSH. He followed through with colleges, universities, and private schools. One school did come up: the Madison Selena Hollinger School for the Blind. He clicked on their website and cut and paste the address and phone number into his Word document.
He then moved on to hospitals. The third result from the top caught his interest: the Mckay State Hospital of California. Stanton clicked on the link. He went to the ABOUT US tab and read their mission statement. It was a hospital for the criminally insane.
His guts tightened and his knees and belly had an icy feeling run through them. They were replaced by the warm sensation that came with adrenaline running through his body and heightening his senses. He saved the link to his favorites and did the same on his phone before reading through everything about the hospital. The clock on his laptop said 9:53 p.m. He decided to chance it and called the main line for the hospital.
“Mckay,” a feminine male voice said on the other end.
“Yes, this is Detective Jon Stanton with the San Diego Police. I’d like to set an appointment to see, hold on…is it a Dr. Nathan Reynolds?”
“Yeah, he’s the administrator. I’m just the night security I don’t set the appointments. But if you come in Monday morning he’ll be here. Come in like after ten ‘cause he has rounds until nine thirty.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
Stanton hung up. He was about to decide what to do next when his phone rang. It was an unknown number.
“This is Jon Stanton.”
“Yes, is this the person that just called the Mckay Hospital?”
“Yes.”
“And who are you exactly?”
“I’m a detective with San Diego Police. Robbery-Homicide. Who am I speaking with?”
“Just one moment…hm, I just searched your name and phone number and it came back accurate. Well, Detective, this is Dr. Reynolds. I was told by night security that you’d called for me.”
“Yeah, they told me you wouldn’t be in until Monday.”
“Saturday nights are my call nights and I usually just spend them here. I prefer security not let anyone know.”
A flash entered Stanton’s mind. It was brief, no more than a second or two, but it encapsulated Nathan Reynolds life and gave Stanton a foundation that told him what type of man he was dealing with.
A man that had gone through multiple divorces, women marrying him for his status and realizing that being married to the ego of most physicians was full-time work. He saw a man that drank or gambled or womanized, or had some vice that he clung to that he felt was necessary. No matter the cost. Stanton saw loneliness and pain, and belief that the time he spent with madness eased that pain. He pictured Nathan Reynolds sitting in a cluttered office with the screams of the insane around him, saying, At least I’m not them.
“I’m glad to hear that, Doctor. I had a few questions.”
“Certainly.”
“I found a journal. It’s bland looking and the corners are rounded with a rubber coating on them. There’s a stamp that says MSH on the inside of the back cover.”
“Yes, that’s one of ours. We issue journals to our patients for therapeutic purposes.”
“This journal was found at the scene of a kidnapping and we think the owner might be responsible for several homicides.” The line went silent, and Stanton noted that the doctor had even stopped breathing. “Doctor? Are you there?”
“Yes. There should be a code on the cover of the journal on the lower left hand side. A number.”
“Yes, it’s 1842.”
“Just a moment…Detective, I don’t think I can release this information without a court order. You will simply have to secure one for me.”
“You have a name, don’t you? Doctor, this man targets families. He’s killed-”
“I know perfectly well what he’s capable of, Detective. But I won’t be responsible for any HIPAA violations and lose my license. You will have to get a court order.”
“Can you tell me at least when he was last incarcerated?”
“We don’t incarcerate our patients, Detective,” he said, annoyed. “We treat them.”
“I apologize. When was he last in for treatment?”
“He was released a little over a month ago.”
“May I ask why?”
The doctor exhaled loudly. “There was a woman that worked here. She no longer does, Detective. She advocated for his release.”
Stanton read exactly what he was saying: the woman, probably a treating psychiatrist, had been sleeping with the man.
“Doctor, without any violations, is there anything else you can tell me?”
“He’s extremely intelligent, Detective. Once I re-read his file without her sugar-coating it…look, get the court order and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
“I’ll see you Monday then, with a court order.”
“Very well.”
Stanton was too wired for sleep. He stood up and paced his apartment and then went back out on the balcony and sat down. He thought about going night surfing as the waves were high, but no one else was out there and surfing alone at night wasn’t something he ever did. Instead, he lay back and began trying to decipher the entries in the journal.
Stanton woke early on Sunday after only having slept a few hours. The journal entries had filled him with a gray weight that clung to him like heavy glue. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind by going for a jog. He ran the length of the beach in a long circle wearing trail shoes that sunk into the sand. He ran for over half an hour before sprinting as long as he could, his breath leaving him, his heart tightening in his chest. Stanton walked for a few minutes and then collapsed on the sand, staring up at the blue, cloudless sky. He sat up and brought his knees to his chest and watched the waves lap the shore until he had regained enough strength to walk to his apartment.
After a shower and a shave, he went to his nearby church for service.
The pews were not crowded. Outside of Utah, Nevada, and Hawaii most Mormon churches were not filled to the brim with parishioners. It created a tighter-knit community, as their numbers were limited, but it also meant that each person had more obligations in the church to keep it running smoothly.
Stanton sat in the back, listening to a sermon given by a young woman who was preaching on how to resist temptation when the doors to the church opened and a man stood there. Stanton had never seen him before but he wore a pressed, black suit and a baseball cap and scanned the room as he entered. Stanton turned away and back to the speaker when he saw the man make his way up the aisle and sit next to him.
“You know,” the man said without turning to him, “the thing that’s always amazed me about the faithful is that they preach everything in here but in the real world they’re no better than the rest of us. They sleep with prostitutes and they drink and have abortions. Some of them molest children or beat their wives. So they ask forgiveness. Forgiveness for things they can’t control.” He turned to him. “Your Heavenly Father must laugh himself into a coma every day. He issues us passions and then forbids us to give in to them. And these people,” he said, motioning with his hand over the pews, “they carry guilt with them and hand it off to their defenseless children. And to top it off, they give money for the privilege of subjecting themselves to this slavery. Religion is quite the racket.”
Stanton was about to say something when his pulse began to pound. He knew who the man was. He recognized the sleek jawline and the eyes that were set just a little too close. Though the hat covered his head he guessed he was bald underneath.